


Kind Neighbours

by Readerofmuch



Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: Demons, Multi, minor religious content, the death isn't permanent but it is there
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-06
Updated: 2017-08-03
Packaged: 2018-12-10 08:07:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 11
Words: 13,073
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11687535
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Readerofmuch/pseuds/Readerofmuch
Summary: When Foggy Nelson visits his grandmother he expects quality time spent hand washing dishes, long walks through the cemetery next door and questions about his personal life he isn't prepared to answer. What he doesn't expect? Teenage satanists and unwilling sacrifice to raise... something. Something bad. At once trapped and welcomed, Foggy has only one question: what's next?





	1. Chapter 1

The house is old, only barely still in New York state with appliances that are older than Foggy but he loves it anyways. To him, it’s synonymous with warm summer days and bonfires outside nearly every night. Now, though both the house and it’s inhabitant have begun to wear down. 

 

“Alright Grandma, I have the groceries. Should I start on the dinner dishes?”

 

“Hmm? Foggy? You’re back already?” says Grandma Nelson, poking her head out of the kitchen.

 

“Yeah, I went to Fraser’s instead of all the way down to the big grocery store. We don’t need much more than eggs and veggies for tomorrow.”

 

Grandma Nelson shakes her head ruefully and Foggy can already smell her famous peanut butter cookies. 

 

“Ah, you always were too clever for your own good. You can drop those on the table and head back out to help the neighbours. There’s been some teenagers kicking around and I don’t want them to get up to anything. Besides, that should give me enough time to finish what I’m doing here.”

 

Foggy sets the bags down and looks at his grandma in concern. 

 

“Will you be okay baking on your own?”

 

“Franklin Nelson, I’ve lived and cooked in this house for twenty years. You live here for one summer and you think you know everything.”

 

Foggy smiles, shaking his head. 

 

“I moved out here because you left a pot on and almost burned the house down!”

 

As much as she wants to be independant, Grandma Nelson is rapidly rounding 85 and Foggy doesn’t want her to put herself at risk on his behalf. 

 

“Oh, you old worrier, I’m not going anywhere and you’ll be home before anything can happen.”

 

“Okay, but only for an hour.”

 

Foggy kisses her on one soft cheek. 

 

“Oh! And can you bring some lilacs? A good sized bundle should be enough, but my hip isn’t up to it this week.”

 

Foggy lights up. 

 

“Of course grandma. Is the jug still out back?”

 

As an answer, Grandma Nelson only turns and picks the painted blue jug full of water from the counter behind her.

 

“Grandma, that’s too heavy for you!”

 

“Foggy, if I ever get that old I want you to shoot me. Now shoo!”

 

Foggy heads out the door smiling with jug in hand. He pauses on the patio, at once admiring the flowers and searching for the clippers. The year is large and all of it is alive. One corner holds a modest garden with tomatoes, carrots and a few herbs. There are roses too, three different colours, several bushes and more flowers than he knows the names of. The lilacs are close to the fence and he cuts twenty stems easily enough. The bush is bursting with them and his snipping barely makes a dent. He sets each stem into the jug carefully before standing to brush his knees off. His jeans are already in rough shape and it’s an even toss up on whether the old washer will actually work for him. Foggy could swear that thing still has a grudge against him from when he tried to wash his rock collection in it. 

 

Task done, he heads next door. The ‘neighbours’ as his grandma called them weren’t very social but he likes it anyways. The old cemetery is small, but peaceful. There aren’t more than twenty graves, but the ancient tree in the middle provided enough cover for the grieving families that had once frequented it, to say nothing of the forest slowly overtaking the north corner. The most recent grave in the cemetery is from 1907 (Claire Temple, ‘Beloved Sister’ 1845-1907) and the oldest is from 1814 (name faded, died June 1814 aged 24, He Will Be Missed). Foggy had grown up there, running between graves and helping his grandma bring flowers. Now, it’s only him. 

 

“Hello Ms. Temple,” he said, “And Mrs. Jones as well. I brought lilacs.” 

 

He sets a stem on each grave as he wanders the graveyard. In one section, the entire Johnson family lays, one after the other. All dead in summer 1857. There were four of them, mother, father and two sons. He’s older than both of the sons had ever gotten to be, strange as it was to think. They’re the only children in the graveyard. The rest are older and less tragic. Still, it’s always peaceful there. Pausing near the big oak, Foggy checks his watch. Time loses meaning in the graveyard and it’s been nearly an hour already. Still, he only has a few flowers left. The final graves are a little further away but that’s alright. He ups his pace a little, rounding the tree to a strange sight. 

 

A group of five teenagers are sitting on one of the graves, about an arm’s length from each other. It’s the oldest, the strange one done in red stone.  The sun is setting and the air is a little chillier now but Foggy goes forward anyways. As he gets closer, he hears- are they chanting? They aren’t paying attention to him as he creeps cautiously closer. One of the teenagers raises a small squirming ball of fluff. Another lifts a knife and the chanting intensifies.

 

“What are you doing?” he asks before he can think any better and they all turn to him in eerie unison. 

 

“He will do,” says the main chanter in a hiss with too many layers. Foggy takes a step backwards. It doesn’t help. Four of the teenagers surge forward in unison as the small fluffy animal flees. Foggy drops the jug of water and it splashes his legs. He turn to run, but the roots are uneven and the teenagers are stronger than they have any right to be. Before he knows it they have him and it’s more than water being splashed around. The last thing he hears is chanting, then everything is gone.

  
  



	2. Chapter 2

When he opens his eyes again, the first thing Foggy sees are stars. The branches of the oak are just barely in view and the night is the clearest he’s seen all summer. It’s breathtakingly beautiful. So much so that it takes him a moment to realize he isn’t breathing. He tries to inhale and panics. He suffocates for a solid minute until he realizes that he’s not only stopped breathing, he doesn’t need to breathe anymore. He’s fine. Given what he remembers fine is the last thing he should be. 

 

And that’s when the cold hits him like a frozen hug. His whole body feels like he’s wearing a second skin of ice, and all he wants to do is sit there until he can get warm again. 

 

Eventually though, something has to give and Foggy is still on the ground. He sits up to clear his head. The way he moves is… wrong somehow in a way his dazed mind can’t grasp. He squeezes his eyes shut, but it isn’t helping. Then, for the first time, he gets a look at his own body. 

 

Foggy isn’t glowing exactly, but it’s close. His form is shadowy, nearly vanishing in the moonlight. He’s wearing the same clothes he was before he met the- could he call five kids a cult? Death by cult sounded much better than death by goth. Oh god, he’s dead. Well and truly dead. What now?

 

“Foggy? Are you alright?” asks an unfamiliar voice from somewhere behind him. 

 

He spins too quickly and dissipates into the night long enough to leave him dizzy. When his body reforms (and oh man how weird was that? His body disappeared!) he can see two elderly ladies in Victorian gowns, arm in arm. They’re both the same eery blue as he is and wearing honest-to-god bonnets. 

 

“Who-who are you?”

 

“I’m so sorry,” says the one who hadn’t spoken before, “I’d forgotten you’d never met us in person, you’ve been here so often. I’m Claire Temple and this is Jessica.”

 

“J-Jessica?” asks Foggy for a lack of anything else to say.

 

“You would know me as Mrs Jessica Jones. It’s a pleasure to meet you.” Jessica nods demurely. 

 

“Likewise,” says Foggy in befuddlement. 

 

“Here now, let’s get you off of that hard ground. That absolutely cannot be comfortable,” says Claire comfortingly, extending her hand. Foggy takes it and she helps him to his feet. 

 

“Now darling, I know it’s difficult to accept but I’m afraid you’re, ah- Jessica, how do I put this delicately?”

 

“My most sincere condolences for the death in your family. Specifically, yours,” says Jessica. 

 

“Thank you dear, you’ve always been better with words than I,” smiles Claire. “Foggy, I’m terribly sorry but that- that can’t truly be your name.”

 

Foggy shakes his head. 

 

“No, my name is Franklin but-”

 

“Lovely!” says Claire. “Isn’t that a lovely name Jessica? I might’ve named my son that, if I’d had one.”

 

Both ladies titter at a joke Foggy almost doesn’t grasp.

 

“Mrs Jones-”

 

“Jessica, please,” she interrupts and he waves his hand. 

 

“I thought you were married?”

 

“Until death do us part, and it’s not like he ever bothered to show up here,” says Jessica with mild derision. 

 

“So is he not a ghost then?”

 

Claire shakes her head in disapproval. 

 

“Oh! Franklin look what you’ve done. We were supposed to be giving you the lay of the cemetery and look at us now! Walk with us and we’ll tell you everything you need to know!”

 

Fogy follows the two. After all, what else is there to do?

 

“So, the hard part is over now,” reassures Claire, “Now you just need to keep going. We’re only a small graveyard here, so answers are harder to come by I’m afraid. But the rules come across as you go. There are ways to get answers, however...” she trails off. Jessica shoots her a look Foggy can’t interpret and glances around so quickly Foggy could almost have missed it. Before he can ask though, the explanations start again.

 

“Daylight has always been hard for our sort,” says Jessica sadly, “But you’ve got a better chance of it than the rest of us. Ghosts who are known and who are remembered are stronger, especially when loved ones are there. We can’t leave, I’m afraid, but this place isn’t so bad.”

 

“I’ve always liked it here,” says Foggy. He’s still numb. Beside him, both women look at each other in concern. “What? What is it?”

 

“Franklin, I hate to ask but-” begins Claire, but does not finish. Instead she takes a deep breath and Jessica interrupts.

 

“What Claire is trying to say is, what are you doing here? We were told you were here, but I’m afraid we’re at a loss for the rest.”

 

“I don’t- oof!”

 

Before Foggy can finish his answer, he’s bowled flat on his back.

 

“Foggy! Foggy! You’re here!”

 

“Hey! No fair! Da-ad! Davy’s too fast!”

 

Foggy finds himself trapped under two boisterous boy-ghosts He can’t see much of them but he’s laughing anyways. 

 

“Boys! Leave Mr. Nelson alone!” says yet another voice and both boys are off of him, leaving him in the too familiar position of sitting confused in the cemetery dirt.

 

“I’m sorry, you are?”he asks politely.

 

“Of course, I’m so sorry,” says the voice and as Foggy rises he can see the speaker. He’s not a tall man, but he’s sturdy. He’s wearing suspenders over a striped shirt, with a peaked cap that matches the boys next to him.

 

“I’m Paul Johnson and these are my boys, David-” he gestures to the taller boy- “and Thomas.” 

 

Both boys are in vests and pants that reach just past the knee. Despite their tumbling and toppling they look perfectly composed. With a start, Foggy realizes that though he’s not nearly as proper, nothing about his outfit seems to have changed either. 

 

“Of course, I should have realized!”

 

Both boys are squirming, obedient but energetic. 

 

“Go and play boys, I need to talk to Mr. Nelson.”

 

“Yes father,” says David. Thomas is already gone. As they leave, a woman who is presumable Mrs. Johnson arrives. She takes her husband’s arm and smiles at Foggy, but does not speak. 

 

“So, welcome,” says Paul, “I can’t say it’s good to see you, but you’re welcome here”

 

“Thank you?” says Foggy. 

 

“It’s alright son,” says Paul simply, “Death is hard. Let us know if there’s anything we can do for you.”

 

He touches the brim of his hat respectfully before turning away with his wife to follow the boys chasing each other through the tombstones. Foggy knows he should say something, should move but he stares, almost transfixed. He senses as much as he feels the hand on his shoulder.

 

“Franklin?” asks Claire in concern. Beside him, Jessica shake her head. 

 

“Leave him be Claire, he’s had a long night,” she says softly. “It was hard enough for me, being alone. You at least had me and Michael, god bless him. Foggy has nothing but old names made real.”

 

“Poor dear,” murmurs Claire. She comes forward and brushes soft, wrinkled lips over his cheek. She smells like moonlight and summer grass, and then she is gone. Both women walk off arm in arm, murmuring quietly. Foggy knows they’re talking about him. He can’t bring himself to care.

 

After a few minutes of standing under the tree in silence, he finds his feet again. He starts walking away from the tree towards the more dissipated graves. The area is at once comfortingly familiar and painfully strange. He notices that ironically, the flowers are still standing in the dropped jug. It seems they survived even if he didn’t. That’s good at least. His grandmother quite likes the jug. She’d be sad if it was broken and with Foggy- no. He can’t think about that now. 

 

Foggy lets his feet carry him forward. The graveyard is not large, but sound doesn’t carry far. He’s still trying to get used to moving in his strange, half present body and he can barely manage a handful of stumbling steps. He’s somewhere near the anonymous grave when he finally sits down to look up. The stars are beautiful and he loses himself in their twinkling. Go to the light and all that, right? Without the light pollution of the city he can see the milky way. He’ll miss this when he leaves- except, no, he won’t. He’s never leaving. He is here until the heat death of the universe, stuck with complete strangers who have known him since before he could walk. And there is nothing he or anyone else can do about it. 

 

 


	3. Chapter 3

 

“Enjoying the view?” asks yet another voice Foggy doesn’t know from somewhere Foggy can’t see. The voice is warm in a way the voice of the dead really shouldn’t be. Wearily, he pulls himself back to a seated position to find an unfairly attractive ghost sitting on a tombstone in front of him. 

 

“It’s not half bad,” he says warily, examining the apparition. He’s wearing simple clothes, a plain black tie and shirt with a distinctive white square on the collar. “Are you here to save my soul?”

 

The man smiles in a way that makes Foggy very glad he’s already sitting down.

“The Lord saves, not me. Honestly, I’m not even a priest.”

 

“No? What’s with the whole…” trails Foggy, gesturing vaguely at the collar. 

 

“If you’re gesturing at the vestments, I can’t see it,” says the man and Foggy realizes for the first time the ghost in front of him isn’t looking at much of anything. “I was the closest thing we had for a long time, after Father Lantom passed.”

 

“Father Lantom, I’ve heard of him. Wasn’t he the one who founded the church in town?”

 

The man smiles brightly again and nods. 

 

“Yes, that was him.”

 

“Geez, you’ve been here forever. What’s your name?”

 

The man shrugs lightly, stepping off the rubbed down gravestone.

 

“Enough about me. It can’t be easy to wake up here..”

 

Foggy sighs.

 

“I still can’t believe it. Killed by cultists no less.”

 

The stranger’s forehead wrinkles almost imperceptibly and something dark flashes behind his eyes.

 

“What’s up?” asks Foggy.

 

“Pardon me?”

 

“Wherefore dost thou wrinkle thine gentle brow?” he says, perhaps a little too sarcastically. The stranger frowns and Foggy feels a flash of guilt. This guy hasn’t been anything but kind to him, and it’s not his fault Foggy’s here. 

 

“We’ll see how well you understand the vernacular 200 years from now.”

 

“I’m sorry,” says Foggy sincerely. “It’s been a long day. Can we just… walk?”

 

The figure nods. 

 

“Would you care to take my arm?” he offers in a voice so deadpan it takes Foggy a full minute to realize he’s (probably) joking. 

 

They wander aimlessly. Foggy debates offering to guide his new friend, but the man seems to know the cemetery better than he does, which is admittedly more than justified. Above them the sky was already beginning to lighten and Foggy glanced up nervously. 

 

“What’s it like? Daytime when you’re…”

 

“Dead? Surprisingly pleasant. Like falling asleep, except that you may never wake up.”

 

“What?” squeaks Foggy. The specter at his side mostly ignores his outburst. 

 

“I remember, a few members of the parish visited my grave. It was… impossible, like I was standing beside them and watching from a distance all at once.”

 

“Oh good,” mutters Foggy as the sun creeps above the horizon. Around the graveyard he can see the other specters fading down into their stones. He is the last one standing, facing the sunrise alone before the ground itself pulls him down into a deep sleep.

 

The day passes like a dream. He is vaguely conscious of his grandma crying and his mother, drifting like she’s the one who died. She’s more of a ghost than he is. It isn’t fair, but he can’t quite bring himself to feel more than mild curiosity. The police are there too. They shrug and offer condolences, but they don’t really do anything. He’s an adult, and a college student with a history of self-harm (the expression his grandma makes when she learns that is almost enough to break his heart). Without a body, well, there’s not much they can do. 

 

What happens in the evening is only barely clearer. The teenagers are back, panicky but present. He is not quite a physical presence yet but he can see that none of them look happy. A boy is holding the girl who held the knife while she sobs in tearfully snotty gulps. The last boy stands a little ways away from the group, examining the grave while the chanter paces frantically. 

 

“Oh my god,” sobs the girl, “Oh my god! We- we actually killed him!”

 

“Shut up!” hisses the chanter, and Foggy is surprised at how high his voice is when untouched by the supernatural. 

 

“We have to tell someone,” says one of the boys futilely trying to comfort, solemnly. “A man is dead, Evan. We can’t just- lie about it!”

 

“Oh yeah,” says the chanter apparently called Evan, “We’ll just go to the police and tell them what, Jeremy? You and Danielle slit a man’s throat while I was chanting something from a book none of us understand and then he fucking vanished?”

 

Danielle bursts out crying again and Jeremy glares up at Evan, who still hasn’t stopped moving. 

 

“Sit down, Evan,” says the final teen. He looks different than the others; he has less eyeliner and chains. He looks almost normal, but there’s something in his eyes that makes Foggy pause. Evan stops moving and sits right where he is.

 

“What do we do?” asks Evan desperately, leaning towards the grave and the boy standing on it. The other follow him almost without realizing and Foggy realizes that they’re leaning away from him. He senses, rather than sees, the figure at the edges of his perception.

 

“We can’t tell- what was that?”

 

A darkness flickers in the corner of Foggy’s eye. All the kids look around, but there’s nothing there. 

 

“You seeing things? There’s nothing there,” objects Jeremy. Evan surges forward desperately.

 

“You can’t crack up Wes, we need you here.”

 

Wesley only shudders as the darkness flickers again and Foggy feels things fading again. His perspective blinks, just a little and when he opens his eyes again the teenagers are gone and night has fallen. He’s sitting comfortably on the graveyard dirt with a familiar figure looming large above him.


	4. Chapter 4

 

“Good morrow,” says the man Foggy was talking to last night. “Glad to see you lasted the night.”

 

“Wait, that was actually a possibility?”

 

The man nods, straight faced. 

 

“People let go, or find themselves overwhelmed by their friends and family and choose not to face the pain.”

 

Foggy shakes his head, pulling himself to his feet. 

 

“They ‘let go’? Where do they go?”

 

The ghost beside him shrugs. 

 

“I’m still here, aren’t I? How would I know?”

 

Foggy’s still got questions, but he doesn’t get the chance to ask them. They’ve been spotted. Claire is already floating towards them, with Jessica not far behind. 

 

“Ah! Michael! You’ve found our Franklin.”

 

The man- Michael, apparently- tilts his head and turns towards Foggy.

 

“Franklin? Is that truly your name?”

 

“You’re one to talk, ‘Michael’. I thought you were nameless and old?” jabs Foggy, more harshly than he intends. Michael flinches, just a little and Claire clears her throat delicately. 

 

“I wasn’t lying,” says Michael. He sounds hurt. “I don’t remember my name.”

 

“I named him,” says Claire. “I came here and found him forgotten, for the most part. If it wasn’t for- well suffice it to say that it can be hard to go on when no one cares enough about you to even ask what to call you. He’s named after my brother. He died almost 40 years before me, but he didn’t stay long after I arrived.”

 

Claire is clearly upset from talking about her brother. Jessica wraps an arm around her and glares at Foggy. Foggy looks down at his shoes to escape her terrifying gaze. 

 

“Hang on, what’s this? Is this- normal?”

 

He gestures at the ground in front of him. Claire takes a curious step forward. Even Jessica eases off her death glare to investigate. 

 

“Curious…” mutters Claire. 

 

“What is it?” asks Foggy. Michael clears his throat. 

 

“Good question,” he says pointedly and Foggy winces. 

 

“Sorry buddy. We’re looking at your grave- geez, that’ll never be normal.”

 

“You’d be surprised,” interjects Jessica. 

 

“Anyways,” he says, shooting her a look, “There’s some kind of glowing sigil on it? I can’t tell what it’s written in, but it’s pretty spooky.”

 

“Glowing?” asks Michael, and Foggy nods. 

 

“It’s reddish- oh, sorry.”

 

“I do remember colour,” says Michael mildly, stepping forward. He kneels down and sets his hand down exactly on the line. “This is strange.”

 

Claire shoots Jessica a look. Jessica, in turn, kicks Michael gently.  

 

“Guys?” asks Foggy. 

 

“I’m sorry?” says Jessica, interrupting Claire’s “Pardon?” 

 

Right, slang. Either way, he’s content to let the others have their secrets. It’s probably not a good plan to make enemies of the people he’ll be seeing every day for the rest of forever. 

 

“Should we try to wake Danny?” asks Jessica in concern. “He always seems to know about these things.”

 

Claire snickers. 

 

“That charlatan? He’s an interesting person, but no great mystic. Besides, he’s been gone for decades.”

 

Foggy cocks his head. 

 

“Danny? Is there a Danny buried here?”

 

Jessica breaks into a wide smile. 

 

“Well, there was a tombstone and everything, but it was stolen.”

 

Foggy wrinkles his forehead in confusion and Claire steps forward. 

 

“He died about five years after Michael. My Michael, anyways. Daniel Rand, otherwise known as ‘The Immortal Iron Fist’. He was a snake-oil salesman who fleeced half the state. He had a cart of bilge water he marketed as medicine and mystical powers of the east to prove it.”

 

Michael shakes his head and snorts when she pauses. 

 

“I am no friend to Daniel,” he says. “I’ll take my leave for now. Best of luck.”

 

Foggy leans into the story and Michael’s departure goes mostly unremarked. 

 

“Okay, but how did he end up here in the first place?”

 

Jessica moves to speak, but Claire beats her to the punch. 

 

“The magic of his iron fist was more truthfully sulfur and zinc. One day, the mixture was just a little off and, well…”

 

“Boom!”  choruses Jessica. She looks much younger now and Foggy can almost forget the decades that separate them, both in age and in eras. 

 

“He exploded?” asked Foggy incredulously. Both women are shaking their heads even before he’s finished asking. 

 

“Not exactly,” starts Claire.

 

“He blew his hand off,” Jessica chortles. That is not a sentence that should ever be chortled and academically, Foggy knows that. This does nothing to stop him from finding her expression absolutely delightful. Claire is decidedly grimmer as she finishes the unfortunate story. 

 

“I did what I could to save his arm, but gangrene took it quickly. And with the summer heat, well…. There wasn’t much I could do do but make him comfortable.”

 

At Foggy’s questioning look, Claire explains.

 

“I was one of the first female doctors in the state, let alone with my skin colour. People weren’t always happy to be under my treatment, but they didn’t have many choices.”

 

“Neat,” says Foggy. It doesn’t quite cover all that needs to be said but it’s close enough anyways. “Do we actually need to talk to Danny then? I already dislike this dude and I don’t think any wisdom he could impart will change that.”

 

“Well…” says Jessica and the way she immediately stops does nothing to quell the curiosity bubbling up in Foggy’s gut. He pounces. 

 

“What is it? I mean, who is it?”

 

The daggers coming from Claire’s eyes could quite possibly do some physical damage to a corporeal being. As it is, Jessica looks like she’s said too much. She doesn’t address him at all. Instead, she turns to Claire beseechingly.  

 

“You know we have to. He’s our only choice.”

 

“He’s dangerous,” insists Claire, “and besides, we have other options.”

 

“You guys know I’m right here, right?”

 

Neither woman pays him any mind. 

 

“Who else can we ask? Fifty years ago, we had some options. We could have asked Stephen, insufferable as he is, or even woken up Thor,” presses Jessica. 

 

“Wait, you actually knew Thor Odinson? That guys has a whole street named after him in town!”

 

Both women stop their discussion to glare at him and wow, apparently age and lace does not soften their ire nearly enough because Foggy is pretty sure he just died again.

 

“Okay, okay. Geez.”

 

“Jessica-”

 

“Claire. We have to do this. It’s been years since we needed him for anything worse than spiritualists. He’ll be weak as a kitten, or he’ll swallow-”Jessica glances at Foggy- “ himself whole.”

 

“Are we playing the pronoun game now? Because I’m not a fan.”

 

“Franklin, dear, do be quiet,” says Claire far too sweetly. “Jessica, I can’t- you know what happened.”

 

“We have to,” says Jessica finally. 

 

“I will have nothing to do with this,” says Claire, sounding as resolute as she does heartbroken. 

 

“I know,” Jessica says, more tenderly this time. She leans in and kisses Claire gently on one wrinkled cheek. “I’ll be safe, have no fear.”

 

The air is cold against Fogy’s skin and he gulps.Claire turns to him next. 

 

“Don’t worry, you’ll be fine. You’re a good one.”

 

“Thanks? What will I fine be against though?”

 

Claire cups his cheek in one ghostly hand and doesn’t say anything at all. 

 

“Well, that wasn’t foreboding at all,” he mutters. Jessica smirks at him. 

 

“It gets far worse, believe me. Come. We’re off to see the defender.”

 


	5. Chapter 5

Jessica moved quickly despite her age, and Foggy has to scramble to keep up. They’re moving towards the northern corner of the cemetery; this section verges onto a forest that he’s never had the chance to properly explore. It’s frightening in its strangeness and Foggy glances around nervously. 

 

“Who’s the defender? Are they dangerous?”

 

Jessica stops moving and looks Foggy straight in the eye. 

 

“I will say this once, because what we are doing is not something to attempt without at least knowing the risks. Are you paying attention?”

 

Foggy blinks before remembering that, oh yeah, this is the part he’s supposed to answer. He nods and Jessica continues. 

 

“Every cemetery has a defender, one who protects. They are of the cemetery and yet, they are the cemetery. Ours is old, and strong. We respect him.” 

 

Foggy nods. 

 

“So, how do we meet this guy? Do we just, like, call his name or something?”

 

Jessica shakes her head. She kneels with a light wince and lays a hand against the ground. 

 

“Perfect.” 

 

Fogy says nothing. His state of mild confusion is already uncomfortably familiar.Jessica stands again and takes his hands. 

 

“Good luck,” is all she says before dissipating into the night, like so much moonlight. 

 

“Wait, that’s a thing we can do?” asks Foggy, betrayed. 

 

“Give it another 50 years,” says Jessica’s voice in the breeze before the faint patch of moonlight is blown away in a warm breeze. The brief flash of humour dissipates faster than Jessica did and Foggy finds himself standing alone.

 

The cemetery had always been one of Foggy’s favourite places. Even as his sister dropped the flowers and fled, Foggy has always felt perfectly comfortable. Even after dying he felt at home. Standing in this corner of the graveyard is exactly the opposite. There is nothing in the darkness but emptiness. He knows this in exactly the same way that, a week ago, he knew ghosts were confined to horror movies and bad tv. Which is to say that he’s growing more unsure by the second.

 

“Now what?” he asks out loud and something that definitely isn’t Jessica Jones whispers into his ear. 

 

“ **_Summon me…_ ** ”

 

The voice is familiar. He knows it from his vision earlier, but also deep inside his spirit. And most of all, he knows what to do. He opens his mouth and words pour out like water from his plastic flower jug. 

 

“Old as stone and coldest bone, I summon thee 

You who keeps, keep me 

Stay, defender. Do not flee”

 

The wind blows ice cold and Foggy can feel skeletal fingers running down his back. He whirls to find nothing behind him but the distant figures of the little family. It’s only when he looks directly in front of him again that he nearly dies a second time. 

 

“Holy shit!” 

 

The figure from the day before cocks its head. With the initial panic fading from his system he can actually see the being in front of him. The familiar billowing black robes vanish into the darkness as though the creature is not only of the night, but is the night incarnate. The deep black hood is pulled closer to the thing’s unseen eyes. 

 

“There is nothing holy here,” says the defender in that same inhuman voice. “Why do you seek me?”

 

“Things are stirring in the graveyard,” explains Foggy, “And we’re not sure what we can do. Do you-? Can you-?”

 

“Save you? Perhaps.”

 

“Look, I’m going to need more than maybe.”

 

The darkness ripples and- is the otherworldly creature smiling? Oh man. If Foggy felt less like wetting his pants and crying, he would definitely find that funny. 

 

“I’ll endeavor to be clearer,” smirks the terrifying omen in front of him. “Ask your first question.”

 

“What’s coming?”asks Foggy. The figure furrows their brow and thinks. 

 

“The best I can say is that it is powerful, and old. It is not the worst they could have found, but it holds more power than they believe. The circle they are arranging now will not have the power to contain it,” explains the figure, clarifying absolutely nothing. 

 

“What?”

 

“They’ve prepared a jug, expecting a trickle of water. With your sacrifice, they’ve summoned a small lake.”

 

“What can we do?”

 

The figure shakes their head. 

 

“For now, the lake is dammed. Keep watch but have no fear. Here, you are protected.”

 

Foggy knows he’s tempting fate, but he has one last question burning on his tongue. 

 

“Who are you?”

 

The figure cracks a bitter smile. 

 

“No one at all,” it says and vanishes. 

 

When Foggy finally returns to the main body of the graveyard, he’s lost in thought. He’s so dazed Thomas almost knocks him over when he hits Foggy at a dead sprint.

 

“Oops! Sorry Mister Foggy!”

 

“It’s okay, Thomas. I was distracted.”

 

“Alright, Mister Foggy,” he agrees with a bucktoothed grin. 

 

“You guys can just call me Foggy.”

 

“But that’s not right,” says David, appearing from behind a tombstone. “You’re a big person.”

 

Foggy’s eyes twinkle with mischief. 

 

“Am I?” He asks, before darting forward and hoisting Thomas up onto his shoulders. “It looks like Thomas is bigger than both of us.”

 

“Don’t be silly,” pouts David, “He’s only up on your shoulders.”

 

“Nuh-uh,” responds Foggy. He debates sticking his tongue out, but decides he’s only slightly more mature that. “We’re a two-headed monster!” 

 

David freezes, but Thomas catches on and growls. 

 

“Oh no!” cries David and takes off running. Foggy isn’t quite that fast, but he more than manages to keep up. 

 

They spend most of the night like that. Foggy is vaguely aware of Claire and Jessica standing off to the side, but he can’t bring himself to care. Finally though, dawn streaks the horizon and Mrs. Johnson comes for her sons. 

 

“Tom! Davey! Bedtime, boys.”

 

“Awwww,” says Thomas, sulking back to his mom. David starts wheedling, but their mother is a formidable woman. Soon enough, both boys are walking away and he is joined again by Claire and Jessica. 

 

“I’m sorry,” he apologizes, still out of breath. “I know we were going to talk, but-”

 

“Don’t worry about it,” assures Claire. “The defender is quite… intimidating.”

 

Foggy nods. He’s about to leave when Jessica says something so soft he barely hears it at all. 

 

“It’s nice to have life here again.”

 

Foggy smiles and bids them both adieu and they part. Dawn is well and truly here and Foggy only gets a glimpse of Michael. He looks worn thin and patchy in the sunlight. Then the dawn breaks and all is darkness. 


	6. Chapter 6

The second day is strange. Everything is a little blurrier and a little less present. Foggy’s mother feels like she’s an eternity away even as she’s close enough to touch, as if he even could. She sobs over nothing and his father shakes his head. He knows they won’t be back, at least for a few days. Everything is foggy (ha!) even in the clearest day. It’s only as evening falls that he finds himself again. It’s a little earlier than he was awake last night and he shudders. It feels like someone is walking on his grave. 

 

It takes a second for him to realize that he actually has a grave (sort of) and it being walked on is an actual possibility. He whirls and finds that same creepy kid crouched over the unnamed grave. The kid is dressed warmly, wearing a thick black hoodie as protection against both the chill of the night and identification. 

 

“What are you doing?” asks Foggy, before he can think about what he’s saying and who he’s saying it to. That is, a demon summoning teenager who actually murdered him. 

 

Predictably, the boy makes no response. He only leans further over the grave. Foggy takes a step closer and the boy shivers. He pulls his sweater closer, grinning. 

 

“By the pricking of my thumbs, something wicked this way comes.”

 

“Shakespeare quotes? Is that honestly the best he can come up with?” says Michael, scaring Foggy halfway to death yet again.

 

“Dude! Not cool!”

 

Michael only smirks.

 

“Is this a dagger which I see before me, 

The handle toward my hand? Come, let me clutch thee.

I have thee not, and yet I see thee still. 

Art thou not, fatal vision, sensible

To feeling as to sight?”

 

Foggy isn’t impressed (okay, a little impressed). 

 

“I just raised my eyebrows, so you know. That wasn’t half bad.”

 

“Thank you. We had readings in the evening most winters, in the old schoolhouse. I didn’t miss one,” says Michael a little sheepishly. He’s smiling though, like he’s remembering happier times. 

 

“That sounds really cool,” admits Foggy, “But there’s some teenager on what I believe is now not just your but our grave. What do we do?”

 

Michael shrugs. 

 

“What’s he doing?”

 

“He’s perched on the edge grave examining the sigils. They’re glowing a little brighter now and I’m honestly a little afraid. You can hear the chanting, right? I don’t know when he started doing that, it’s pretty quiet. That’s normal, right? I mean, as normal as things ever get in graveyards. We’re all dead anyways so who am I to judge? After all-”

 

“Foggy! You’re alright. There’s not much we can do, really.”

 

Michael looks resigned and Foggy is almost angry at him for giving up even as he wants nothing more than to offer comfort. 

 

“What?”

 

“We’re ghosts. You can try to create some negative energy around him, if you want, but I’m going to go warn the others.”

 

“Warn?” asks Foggy pointlessly. 

 

“Do you want Thomas and David anywhere near to this brute?”

 

Foggy shrugs.

 

“Fair. What about the guardian?”

 

Michael’s face darkens. 

 

“He knows.”

 

Foggy contemplates raising some sort of question, but decides that he’s had more than enough of cryptic answers. Besides, Michael’s been here for some 200 years. If anyone would know about the guardian, it would be him. 

 

Looking at the boy, Foggy contemplates how best to poison the aura of the room. Wesley is has his head bent and is murmuring gently, as though in prayer. Foggy dos the only thing he can think of and (glancing around to ensure Thomas and David weren’t nearby and wondering if they’d even understand the gesture) flips Wesley the bird with both hands. The boy wrinkles his brow and glances around. The chanting doesn’t last long after that. 

 

Foggy shakes his head and heads towards the other. He’s still new to this glowy blue world, but the crowd seems smaller than it should. He can see Michael standing near Paul, with the two ghost boys standing uncharacteristically still beside them. Claire and Jessica nre stadning a little off to the side and as he approaches, Claire peels away from the group towards him. 

 

“What’s going on?” he asks quietly. 

 

She shakes her head. 

 

“It’s Mary, she- well, she’d been fading for so long and-”

 

“She’s dead?” asks Foggy without thinking. 

 

Claire shakes her head.

 

“She’s… faded away. The angels transplanted her to heaven’s garden, her ship has sailed, she’s found her way to into the great beyond. Say what you will, she’s gone.”

 

Claire’s voice rises throughout her declaration until she reaches the defeated end. 

 

“Oh,” says Foggy, “I’m so sorry.”

 

Claire shakes her head. 

 

“It’s alright. This isn’t the first time I- my brother isn’t active anymore either.”

 

“That doesn’t mean it hurts any less,” affirms Foggy. “Can I- can I hug you?”

 

Claire shakes her head.

 

“I’m fine, I have Jessia. The boys, though…”

 

They walk together to the group. 

 

“ He restoreth my soul: he leadeth me in the paths of righteousness for his name's sake.

Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: for thou art with me; thy rod and thy staff they comfort me,” recites Michael. “Psalm 23, verses three and four. Amen.”

“Thank you,” says Paul. Both of his boys are at his side, held tightly to him. He looks like he wants to say more, but instead he only squeezes his eyes shut and clutches his sons closer.

The group holds together for a moment of silence, heads bowed. Eventually, slowly, everyone starts to dissipate. What else is there to do? Foggy, shell shocked, wanders the way his feet lead. Everyone moves back towards their graves, he notices. He wonders vaguely if it’s conscious before realizing he’s reached base of the tree where he met his untimely end. The tree itself is peaceful in the still night. Looking now, he can see some discoloration close to the bottom. It’s faint but he’s spent his whole life around this tree. Are they- bloodstains? God, that’s morbid. 

Foggy shakes his head and looks away from the tree. Tonight is not a night to fall back into feeling sorry for himself. When he glances around the graveyard, the first thing he notices is Michael sitting on the unnamed grave. His grave. The moonlight is shining through him.For the first time Foggy can imagine how long he’s been here. Michael looks at once old and impossibly fragile. Foggy can only wonder: how many people has he lost over the years? 


	7. Chapter 7

After a solid minute of awkward staring, Foggy pulls himself away from the tree and blinks. He walks towards Michael first quietly, then remembering his blindness, scuffs his feet. Michael doesn’t even look up as he approaches. 

 

“Hey,” says Foggy, settling on the grave. “You doing okay?”

 

Michael gazes into the distance and says nothing for half a beat. Finally he sighs.

 

“I don’t want to be alone,” he says into the still night air Foggy doesn’t say anything, only listens.

 

“Is that selfish of me? People are fading away forever, off to heaven or nothing or who knows where and all I can think is, I don’t want to be alone.”

 

“I don’t think that’s such a bad thing,” comments Foggy carefully. “You’ve been here for what, 200 years?”

 

“Too long. I just- I’ve been here for so long. I’m not going anywhere any time soon, even as people forget us.”

 

Foggy shrugs reflexively. 

 

“I’m still here. I care about you, and I’m not going anywhere.”

 

Michael’s face twists and the hair on Foggy’s neck rises. 

 

“Michael? What was that? Buddy, you can’t keep this from me.”

 

Michael shakes his head. 

 

“Foggy, you don’t have a stone. Didn’t you ever wonder why there’s so few of us and so few stones at all? Most people early on couldn’t afford one or didn’t bother, especially in the winters when we couldn’t dig graves. Without a stone there’s nothing to keep you here.”

 

Foggy swallows the churning in his gut and puts on a smile. Michael might be able to hear it, at least. The last thing they need right now is wallowing. 

 

“That’s what, ten years from now at least? My grandma will still be here and… well, you’ll be here, hey Michael?”

 

There’s a faint smile creeping across the other man’s face, even as he shakes his head. 

 

“That’s not my name,” he murmurs so quietly Foggy almost misses it. 

 

“What?”

 

“Michael. It isn’t- that’s not my name.”

 

Foggy wrinkles his eyebrows. 

 

“Yeah, we’ve been over this. You’ve lost your name to the centuries and Claire gave you the name of her brother- wait, didn’t his time overlap with yours? How did that even work?”

 

“I had little contact with Claire for the first few decades. Until things truly started thinning, we had little interaction. She died 93 years after me- hold, this is not what I was speaking of. I wanted to tell you my name.”

 

Foggy pushes himself up, literally pushing himself off the ground in his momentary flash of excitement. 

 

“You remembered? That’s fantastic! What’s your name?”

 

Michael smiles, small and fragile. 

 

“My name is- was, I suppose- Matthew.”

 

“Hello, Matthew,” says Foggy. “By the way, I have my hand out to shake, to properly meet you.”

 

Matthew shudders. 

 

“Please, call me Matt. I- I think it was only Father Lantom who called me Matthew.”

 

“Matt. I like it.”

 

“An improvement on Foggy, that’s for certain,” remarks Matt offhandedly and Foggy punches him in the shoulder. 

 

“Don’t punch the blind!” yelps Matt already swiping towards Foggy, swiping his hand perfectly to give him a good chop to the gut. 

 

“Oof! How are you so good at that?”

 

Matt looks like an angel. 

 

“Luck?”

 

“Right, and I’m here because I like being incorporeal.”

“I just realized- you have no idea what you’re truly capable of!” says, Matt, almost jumping off his tombstone. 

 

“You could always, I dunno, actually tell me something for the first time since I’ve been here,” says Foggy, unheeded. 

 

“Not tonight I don’t think. David and Thomas will be excited to show you what can be done, after they recover.”

 

They both sober up at the mention of the fading. Matt perches himself back on his grave and Foggy sinks back to the ground. The conversation lapses into silence and Foggy stares down at the grass in front of him. He can feel it and he can move it, a little, but he can’t do much more than twiddle it idly. Finally, he breaks the silence. 

 

“How many?” he asks Matt. 

 

“What do you mean?”

 

“How many?” repeats Foggy without looking up. “How many have faded?”

 

Matt doesn’t answer for a long minute. Finally, he speaks. 

 

“I don’t know anymore. There’s been so many: Peter and then Wade not long after him. Tony and Clint and Natasha all at once, with Steve and Sam not far behind.”

 

At Foggy’s curious noise, he explains. 

 

“They were- Pinkertons, I think? It was never quite clear. They didn’t stay long. Bruce faded into a shadow of himself and then, well…”

 

“I’m so sorry Matt,” says Foggy even though he knows it won’t help much. After a second, he shifts so he’s leaning on Matt’s stone and resting lightly against his leg.

 

“I was never especially fond of them anyways. They kept trying to protect me.”

 

Abruptly, Matt stands and Foggy shifts away from him again.

 

“How does the sky look, Foggy?”

 

“Still pretty dark, why?”

 

Matt looks like a caged animal.

 

“I need to move, but I don’t want to be pulled back.” 

 

Foggy feels like he should be more concerned at the look on Matt’s face. Instead, he only shrugs.

 

“Break a leg, pal,” he says. 

 

“Why would you wish that on anyone?” asks Matt before frowning. “Oh. Colloquialism?”

 

“I’m nodding,” says Foggy. “Sorry buddy.”

 

Matt only shrugs before walking off into the still darkness. Suddenly, Foggy is completely, breathtakingly alone. He knows he should check on the boys, make sure Claire is doing okay, at the very least keep Matt from doing something stupid. Instead, he feels himself slipping away. It’s too early, he knows but the grave is soft and almost warm from the late summer’s rays. Somewhere deep in his mind, he blames Wesley for desecrating the grave, but before he can contemplate anything else he’s already asleep. 

 

The day passes in a haze. The teenagers are there, maybe? The defender definitely is, at least for a while. Still, Foggy’s happy to prove an old saying: he sleeps like the dead and the day passes mostly in darkness. 

 


	8. Chapter 8

 

When Foggy, wakes up, Matt looks concerned. 

 

“Foggy? Praise God, I’m glad you’re awake.”

 

Foggy squints up at Matt. It’s surprisingly dark. 

 

“What’s going on? I’m awake now, geez…”

 

Matt’s answer is terse and to the point. 

 

“They’re here.”

 

Foggy pushes himself up quickly, but not urgently. 

 

“Matt, buddy, there’s a whole lot of ‘them’ you could be talking about.”

 

Matt shakes his head and gestures somewhere behind Foggy. Foggy spins to take the whole sorry scene. The crying girl from earlier (Danielle?) is sitting by the tree, with Jeremy across from her. There’s something between them that he can’t quite make out. He edges closer. 

 

“Is that a ouija board?”

 

Matt gestured towards his eyes and Foggy coughed. 

 

“Right. Blind ghost from way before ouija even existed.”

 

“You’re very observant,” comments Matt. “Claire does think it is a ‘ouija board’ at least. Given that she and Jessica used to try to contact her brother that way I’m inclined to believe her.”

 

Foggy turns his attention away from the teenagers still setting up to glance at Matt. 

 

“Did that work?”

 

Matt shrugs. 

 

“I never really knew the other Michael. He died 75 years after me and back when there were more of us, we had only a passing acquaintance.” Matt pauses, shaking his head. “It was so different then.”

 

They both fall silent as the others approach. 

 

“Claire’s here,” says Foggy, an afterthought rather than a statement. “4 o’clock.”

 

Matt nods. “Shall we then?”

“Indeed we shall, my good man. Indeed we shall.” 

 

Matt rests his hand lightly on Foggy’s arm and Foggy can feel himself blushing. They walk together to join the others, who are clustered together. Claire smiles knowingly at them as they approach. Jessica turns slightly to leave them room and keeps speaking. 

“Well, now that we’re all here let’s review the plan. Right now, they’re both scared. We can use that. Here’s the plan…”

  
  
  


When they finally split, Danielle and Jeremy were about to begin. 

 

“Jerebear, if Wesley finds out about this…”

 

“Dani, don’t worry. We’re going to help him. I just- I need to do this.”

The two make eyes at each other over the ouija board. From his position, Foggy can just barely hear Jessica’s comment to Claire. “If things get conjugal, I’m going full haunting.”

 

Claire chuckles but before she can respond, they set hands on the planchette and everything begins. 

 

First, the boys start running circles around the tree.

 

“Whoosh!”

 

“OoooOOOooo!” 

 

“I’m scarier!”

 

“Nuh-uh. I’m the scariest!”

 

Over the inaudible cacophony, the would-be spiritualists begin their ritual. 

 

“Is there anyone there?” asks Danielle, shivering in the warm summer night. 

 

Foggy stands and waits. The boys are still shouting, but that fades away. Behind him, the tree rustles and he smiles, just a little. Everything is working perfectly. He reaches out carefully and lays his hand on the planchette. 

 

“Spirit? Are you with us?”

 

Foggy fights the urge to roll his eyes. Instead, he shakes the planchette lightly. Above them the tree rustles even more and he moves the planchette towards ‘no’. 

 

“Not funny,” says Jeremy. “Spirit, what is your name?”

 

Foggy seizes the planchette again and moves it very deliberately. 

 

YOU KNOW WHO I AM 

 

Danielle’s face goes paler than any ghost’s. 

 

“Jeremy, I can’t do this. We have to stop.”

 

She goes to pull away and Jeremy practically lunges across the table at her. 

 

“No! Dani, we can’t stop now! You know what could happen just as well as I do.”

 

“We can’t let Wesley haunt us.”

 

Foggy sighs and yanks hard on the planchette. It isn’t easy, but he can feel the scared, angry energy radiating off of the two. Somehow (Foggy has no idea how) it helps. 

 

TOO LATE

 

Danielle giggles hysterically. 

 

“Oh great! Just great! We’re gonna die here, you know that Jeremy? Dead!”

 

Foggy sighs. 

 

“Kids these days. Jesus.”

 

“Just Matt is fine,” quips Matt from above him. Foggy looks up to find him perched carefully on a branch above the two. 

 

“Matt? What are-”

 

“Oh spirit! I call upon you now!”

 

Foggy pushes the planchette to “yes”. 

 

“Foggy Nelson! We have done- we have done terrible things to you,” says Jeremy.

 

All activity stills. The boys stop shouting and for a moment, everything is still. 

 

“You have to understand,” interrupts  Danielle, “It wasn’t our fault! We never- we didn’t mean to! It was supposed to be something small, a little brush with the darkness.” Her shoulders are shaking and Jeremy takes his hand off the planchette to comfort her. He realizes his mistake when the ouija board starts shaking violently. The rush of power- Foggy could get used to this.

 

In the tree, Matt begins- intoning is the only word for it. 

 

“ Credo in Deum Patrem omnipotentem,” he begins. 

 

The air in the graveyard was already breezy. Now, the wind is whipping through the gravestones. 

“Creatorem caeli et terrae. Et in Iesum Christum, Filium eius unicum, Dominum nostrum, qui conceptus est de Spiritu Sancto, natus ex Maria Virgine,”

 

As the chanting builds, so does the power. It feels as if the defender is standing beside as Foggy rises on the wind, looming above the teenagers. They both look up at him, terrified. 

 

“Dani, what did you do?!” 

 

“Me?” squawk Danielle. “What did you do? You took your hands off the board!” 

 

The chanting builds behind him, ominous and dark. 

 

“passus sub Pontio Pilato, crucifixus, mortuus, et sepultus, descendit ad infernos!”

 

As Matt speaks hell, Foggy feels something split around him and he is no longer an unseen horror. 

 

“Look what you both have done!” 

 

Danielle freezes as Jeremy breaks out into loud, sloppy tears. 

 

“You have to understand, we didn't want to!” 

 

“But you did! Because of what you've done, a man is dead! I am- I'm dead.” 

 

Jeremy’s face is covered in tears and snot now, even as Danielle pushes past her terror to ask a question. 

 

“Why are you here? Why haven't you moved on?” 

 

“Have you ever heard of a troubled death? Besides, you're the ones who called me. What were you hoping for anyways?”

 

Jeremy has finally composed himself enough to speak and his voice is flat as he answers.

 

“Forgiveness.”

 

Foggy bites back a harsh laugh. 

 

“Yeah, sure. Let me get back to you on that one.” 

 

He goes to turn away but Danielle stops him.

 

“Wait! Foggy, please. I have to know! What happens next?” 

 

Foggy shrugs. In the background the chanting resumes and whether they can hear it or not the ambience is killer. 

 

“Tertia die resurrexit a mortuis, ascendit ad caelos.”

 

“Now? You leave. I return to where I came from and I’ll tell you this- you won’t like what’s coming.”

 

Foggy can feel himself fading as the chanting reaches it’s end. 

 

“Sedet ad dexteram Dei Patris omnipotentis-”

 

“Wait!” shouts Danielle. Matt doesn’t even pause. 

 

“Inde venturus est iudicare vivos et mortuos.”

 

“Foggy! What’s coming?”

 

Foggy shakes his head. 

 

“Credo in Spiritum Sanctum,”

 

“I’ll tell you this,” he starts.

 

“Sanctam Ecclesiam catholicam,”

 

“It’s big.”

 

“Sanctorum communionem,”

 

“It’s bad.”

 

“Remissionem peccatorum,”

 

“And it’s your fault.”

 

“carnis resurrectionem, vitam aeternam”

 

With that, he vanishes and the chant hangs in the air. As both teenagers flee, Matt finishes. 

 

“Amen.”

 

With the interlopers turning tail and running, Foggy sits down hard in the grass. As soon as he’s sitting down, David and Tom practically tackle him. 

 

“Foggy! Foggy!”

 

“Didja see Foggy? You were glowing!”

 

“Really?” said Foggy. “Huh.”

 

“Alright, boys. Let’s leave Mr. Nelson to rest.”

 

Foggy moves to protest, but the weariness hits like someone dropped a mausoleum on him. After the boys clear, Claire moves forward to fuss. 

 

“Oh Franklin, you’ve done so well. A haunting! And you’re so new. I think that even Michael would have struggled when he was as new as you are.”

 

“Michael? Oh wait, Michael! He’s still in the tree!”

 

“Who, me?” says Matt from behind Foggy. 

 

“Dude!”

 

“Apologies. How was the prayer?”

 

“It was amazing!” enthuses Foggy. “What even was it?”

 

“The apostles credo. I thought I had forgotten, honestly,” says Matt, beaming.

 

“It was breathtaking,” assures Claire. “Now though, Franklin looks about ready to sink into the ground where he sits. I think that perhaps we should leave him be for now.”

 

“It’s o-”starts Foggy, only to be interrupted by a wave of exhaustion that leaves him ready to pass out. He lets himself lose coherency. 

 

“Oh Claire,” he hears Matt says as the three walk away. “I have something to tell you about my name…”

 


	9. Chapter 9

Foggy sleeps for longer this time. He loses any sense of time and everything is warm darkness.

 

“Foggy?”

 

Not yet. It’s so peaceful. 

 

“I know, Foggy, however….”

 

Wait. 

 

Foggy pushes himself up, finding himself quite suddenly awake. There are some very familiar teenagers crouched over Matt’s grave and one unnerved ghost pulling him to his feet. 

 

“Foggy, this is perhaps the worst that could have happened.”

 

“Wait, wait, wait. What’s going on?” asks Foggy, gesturing towards the teenagers. His arms are dangerously transparent. 

 

“They’ve been here for the past few nights and the energy around them is only growing.”

 

Matt looks panicky but Foggy still can’t quite kick his brain into gear. 

 

“Okay, please elaborate?”

 

“Foggy, I think they’re summoning a demon.”

 

Well, Foggy’s definitely awake now.

 

“Well that’s definitely not a good thing. Where’s the defender?”

 

Matt only shrugs. 

 

“The Defender can’t help a threat that isn’t here yet.”

 

“So why am I here, exactly?” asks Foggy, stretching.

 

“It’s the only thing I could do. If you’d been gone much longer, you-” Matt whips his head towards the grave . “No. It can’t- not yet.”

 

“What?”

 

“Foggy, I need you to do something for me. Find the others. I’m calling a council of the graveyard.”

 

Before Foggy can ask any questions, Matt disappears and Foggy bites back a curse. 

 

“Can I get one answer? Just one? No?”

 

He throws up his hands, edging uncomfortably past the teenagers. The sight of Claire and Jessica walking together is one of the most reassuring sights he’s had post mortem. 

 

“Oh good, he lives!” comments Claire and Jessica smacks her lightly. 

 

“Don’t be unkind dear. Not everyone can look as dead as us.”

 

Foggy listens politely, but burst through as soon as they stop speaking. 

 

“Aren’t you two panicking? There are teenagers over there summoning demons!”

“Demon, singular,” says Claire idly. 

 

“Foggy, we’ve been here for more than 200 years between us. Much has tried to disrupt the cemetery, but we are protected. I am aware, but not afraid.”

 

“Matt doesn't seem to agree,” says Foggy, perhaps a little harshly. “He’s called a council of the graveyard.”

 

Jessica and Claire glance at each other. 

 

“I believe Paul has the boys in the corner of the cemetery in that direction,” says Claire, gesturing towards the clearly visible three. “Would you fetch them for us?”

 

“I mean, the graveyard’s not that big. We could just call-”

 

“Thank you Foggy,” interrupts Jessica, syrupy sweet. 

 

“These people,” mutters Foggy, trudging across the graveyard. “Is it so hard to tell me what’s going on? Really?”

 

Finally though, he does reach the three. David and Thomas, for once, don’t run at him. Thomas looks distracted, but David is older. He can tell there’s something no one’s telling him. 

 

“Mr. Nelson?” asks Paul, adjusting his hat. “What can we do for you this fine evening?”

 

“Matt has called a council of the graveyard.”

 

David tips his head. 

 

“Dad? Do we have to go to bed now?”

 

Paul puts his hand on David’s shoulder. 

 

“This graveyard is your home too, no matter whether we like it or not. You and Tom have as much a say in it as any of us. If you boys promise to behave…”

 

“Yes father,” says David somberly. Tom only nods.

 

“Follow us, Foggy, we’ll take you to where you need to go,” says Paul over his shoulder. 

 

They walk a direction Foggy hadn’t often thought to explore. The only thing there is an old, broken fence and the glade next to the graveyard. It was never a safe place to play, with tetanus or needle jabs just as likely as whimsical adventures. In darkness the world is different. 

 

When he floats through the thick snarl of brambles that’s blocked the way for as long as he can remember, he almost stumbles back through Tom’s closely following form. 

 

“Woah…”

 

The trees frame a ghostly coven with Claire and Jessica whispering to Matt. The moonlight filters through branches, casting the circle of stones in shadows. When Claire notices them, she says something to the others and they drift apart. The circle is not large, but the empty seats still gape like rotten teeth. Foggy hesitates until Claire gestures him forward to sit on a stone midway between her and Matt. 

 

“I call to order the council of elders,” begins Matt, “Though now I suppose it is the council of all. This council has not been called in nearly seventy years.”

 

“Ever since the fading began in earnest,” says Jessica, sadly. 

 

“Though that is still an issue we face,” says Matt while everyone else studiously avoids looking at the little family perched on stones like a line of lost ducklings, “We come together now for more pressing matters.”

“For the uninitiated,” says Claire with a nod towards Foggy, “The council assembles to address problems that threaten the very existence of the graveyard. The entity being contacted now is….”

 

“Horrifically dangerous,” summarizes Jessica. Matt clears his throat. 

 

“May I continue?”

 

Jessica doesn't say anything else, but the pause is enough for Matt to continue. 

 

“Thank you. We are all aware of the danger before us, and yet problems are not solutions.” 

 

“The guardian,” says someone. Foggy only realizes it's him when everyone turns in his direction. 

 

“He's meant to protect this place, save the stones and the people behind them.  Where is he?” 

 

Jessica looks at Claire, who looks at Matt, who looks at nothing at all and Foggy feels like there's a whole conversation he isn't privy to. Paul, meanwhile, is nodding. 

 

“The defender does not come easily,” says Claire, after an eternity of silence, “and he does not come without a cost.” 

 

“We have to defend our home!” says Foggy, surprising even himself. 

 

“Foggy-” 

 

“We can't just-’

 

“He’s right, we-” 

 

Matt raises his hand and everyone falls silent. Even Foggy can feel the power in the movement. 

 

“If the Defender is our only option, we will be defended. Until such dire straits though, does anyone have any other ideas?”

 

Foggy looks around the circle, but no one will meet his gaze. Finally, a small voice pipes up. 

 

“What’s coming?”

 

“David,” hisses his father. 

 

“He deserves to know,” says Claire, wearily. 

 

“Do we even know?” asks Foggy. 

 

“It’s alright,” says Matt. “Something is coming to take our home. Right now, we’re trying to decide what to do to protect it.”

 

David nods very seriously and leans towards his little brother. The two lean together and whisper, only half perched on their stones.

“Boys, there’s no whispering in the circle,” says their father gently. Both brothers look at each other and nod. 

 

“We are defended,” they chorus in unison. 

 

Claire moves to speak, but before she can do anything Matt shakes his head. 

 

“I know what must be done. Those who can hide or flee, go. Your graves for now, are safe and they must stay that way. Old as stones, but strong as bones. I cannot lose anyone else today.”

 

Silence falls in the circle. After a moment, Matt clears his throat. 

 

“I call an end to our council, in the shadow and in the moonlight. Let stone and spirit shine ever bright.”

 

Everyone stands, murmuring to each other. No one speaks outright though and they leave. 

 

“Foggy, can you guide me?” asks Matt after everyone is gone. “I’d rather not walk right into the summoning circle.”

 

Foggy nods, and then realizes. 

 

“Of course buddy, of course.” 

 


	10. Chapter 10

 

The walk across the graveyard is somber. They pass Claire and Jessica first, holding hands. Their aura is strong over their graves. Foggy can see the Johnsons too, sitting on their graves and offering each other what little comfort they can. His heart breaks when he realizes the gap between Paul and his boys is Mary’s grave, an empty patch between their strengthening coronas. He understands what Matt told them to protect their graves. The ties between the ghost and the grave are clear now in a way they had never been before, only emphasized by Mary’s absence. 

 

“We’re close,” says Foggy.  Matt nods.

“Foggy, I-”

 

“Yeah?”

 

Matt shakes his head and tries again. 

 

“I don’t know how much time we have left Foggy. Do you remember the evocation?”

 

“Yeah, of course.”

 

Matt opens his mouth as though to speak, but he closes it again without speaking. They’re nearly there now and Foggy gasps as they round the tree. 

 

“How is it?” asks Matt desperately and Foggy shakes his head.

 

“Not gonna lie, it’s not great. The weird cult people are surrounded by glowing fog and there’s something inhuman forming in the middle of the cluster.”

 

Matt takes a deep breath. 

 

“Foggy. I need your help.”

 

“Me? You’ve been here 200 years!”

 

“And precisely none of those years have involved human sacrifice, Foggy. Our biggest problem was that there was nothing going on.”

 

He sounds desperate and Foggy wants to hug him. 

 

“So I need to what? Take on the power of the powerful guardian spirit and defend the graveyard? Because that’s some Voltron shit right there.”

 

“What- Never mind. Not exactly.”

 

Foggy shakes his head and gestures towards the summoners. 

 

“Do you see what’s going on right now? Don’t answer that. We don’t have time to be cryptic.”

 

“Let me put it delicately- you don’t have to take on the guardian spirit,” says Matt with a grim smile.

 

“Matt?” 

 

Matt grins more broadly and Foggy is suddenly more scared of him than he is for him. 

 

“You got the ritual wrong earlier.”

 

“I- what?”

 

“Oldest stone and cold as bone, Foggy. This is my home, and no matter what the cost I have to defend it.”

 

“What’s the cost?”

 

Matt only shakes his head. 

 

“I’ll try to come back,” he promises. “You have to start the summoning Foggy. If you don’t…” 

 

“I know buddy, I- I know.”

 

Foggy is practically shaking as he draws himself together and starts the rhyme. 

 

“Oldest stone and cold as bone, I summon thee,” he says as Matt plunges forward and the transformation overtakes him.  “You who keeps, keep me,” he implores the horned shadow standing above him. “Stay, defender. Do not flee,” he whispers. It’s almost a prayer as he watches the defender approach the circle. 

 

The defender is strong, but it seems at first that the demon is stronger. It is a grotesque being, swollen out of proportion and most of the kids are terrified. Even from the distance Foggy can see Wesley’s sickening grin. The demon pulls himself free of the circle easily. The two beings clash and battle for dominance. Foggy can’t tell how much the summoners can see. He doesn’t even know how much he can see and how much is is lost in the haze. All he can think, over and over again as the Defender takes hit after hit is that Matt is in there somewhere. Foggy is frozen, fixed in place as the battle draws nearer to him. The demon lunges in his direction and that’s what gives Matt the advantage he needs to push him down and pin him hard against the graveyard dirt.

 

“Kingpin!” screams the defender it’s bone chilling voice. “Leave this place!”

 

The demon beneath him laughs. It sounds like a tarpit boiling over and Foggy realizes belatedly that the air around him smells like sulphur. 

 

“Fond of that one, are you? I could never fall to such a petty thing as you,” laughs the Kingpin. In the middle of his sentence he pushes up again the shadowy arm holding him and pushes the Defender against the tree. There’s a sickening crack that Foggy can only hope is the tree. Behind him, the circle is collapsing. One figure is stumbling away apparently as fast as they can while another looks to have passed out. Wesley though, Wesley isn’t running. He’s approaching the fighting pair with his hands open as if the receive a gift. 

 

“Kingpin!” he shouts and the graveyard falls still. The Kingpin drops the Defender like a sack of potatoes and Foggy has to fight back the urge to run to him. Wesley is right in front of the demon now. 

 

“Kingpin!” shouts Wesley again and seriously does he want to die?

 

“Foolish mortal,” says the Kingpin, “What do you ask of me?”

 

Foggy would laugh if he weren’t so terrified. 

 

“Take me!” cries Wesley. “I can serve you, free you from your bindings.”

 

The Kingpin sneers, and Foggy thinks he might be smiling behind his grotesque inhumanity. 

 

“Done,” snarls the demon and then there’s a flash of light. For a moment Foggy can see the boy examining his own hands and smiling with a grin that isn’t his.Then there’s another sickening crack, and instead of a teenage boy there’s a tree on Matt’s grave and the unholy hybrid has vanished. 

 

“Matt?” says Foggy in disbelief. The Defender doesn’t even look at him. The air is cold and quiet for a moment and then he’s gone as well. 

 

“Matt!” yells Foggy, sprinting forward. When he reaches the far side of the tree he expects to find Matt curled up on the ground or leaning against the stump. Instead there’s only a lingering feeling of dread and- 

 

“Oh my god, is that a hand?” says one of Wesley’s friends. Danielle lets out a bloodcurdling scream that nearly drowns out the fast approaching sirens. In his corner of the graveyard Foggy isn’t sure what he can do. The others are already standing, already coming forward with comfort and questions. That’s nice. They’re so nice. The world is a little fuzzy, Foggy realizes and weren’t graves like, super important to ghosts? His is sort of gone now,so probably he is too. Ah, well. 

  
  



	11. Chapter 11

When Foggy wakes up again, he feels almost warm for the first time since dying. Which, okay, not the best frame of reference but he still feels better than he has in ages. After another moment of luxurious warmth he drags himself up and opens his eyes slowly. When he can process what’s in front of him, he closes his eyes again and rubs them hard. Finally he cracks them open again and finds exactly what he’d seen before. He’s facing the edge of the graveyard, where the tree had fallen, in exactly the same place he’d woken every single time before. The only different thing is the grave.

 

The gravestone is the same red granite that had fascinated him when he was alive, but it looks vastly different. Before it had been cracked and broken, nearly illegible. Matt’s name was gone altogether. Now Matt’s grave is cleaned up again, free of any evidence of the massive tree that had been sent crashing down onto it. The stone itself is polished and new again. The inscription is displayed boldly on the front of the tombstone.                                                                                                                       

 

Matthew Murdock  died June 1814 aged 24, He Will Be Missed

 

He spins around. The sun is almost completely set, but he’s alone in the cemetery. Something is off though. After a second, he realizes. Foggy is still looking for the tree that’s been the centre of the cemetery for as long as he can remember. Instead of looking up, Foggy looks down. The stump is gone. In its place is a large patch of dirt and a tree that’s barely as tall as his waist. Closer examination reveals a plaque and lilacs in a familiar jug. The plaque is not ornate, but it is beautiful. It reads, 

 

Foggy’s Tree

In Memory of Franklin ‘Foggy’ Nelson

“In one of the stars I shall be living. In one of them I shall be laughing. And so it will be as if all of the stars were laughing, when you look at the sky at night.” Antoine Du Saint-Exupéry

 

“It’s beautiful,” says Claire from behind him and he can hear Jessica’s murmured agreement. A moment later, David and Thomas barrel into him. Foggy catches himself before he can topple through the sapling, but he still can’t stop smiling. It’s only after a night of celebration, play and answering question after question that he realizes what’s missing. Matt’s still gone. 

 

After a few nights the pain fades to a dull ache. The time is blurry anyways and the six of them fill it well enough. Every time the sun sets though, every time Foggy wakes up staring at the empty, impersonal stone, he feels Matt’s absence like a knife. Time passes, leaves change, and Foggy deals with it. He spends more time alone. When he walks along the boundary or explores the cemetery he knows intimately, it hurts less. 

 

The ghost tours though, those are new. When Grandma Nelson puts out her Halloween decorations in early October, she puts out a sign as well. There’s a website that Cousin Suzy must have helped with and the support of the local historical society. It’s the talk of the cemetery for weeks, up until the day of the first tour. 

 

“D’you think they’ll talk about us?” asks David. 

 

“I’m sure they’ll mention everyone,” placates Paul.

 

“What do you think they’ll say about us?” smirks Jessica and Claire flashes her a wicked smile. 

 

“What about Matt? What will they say about him?” asks no one at all. 

 

Finally, the day arrives. No one is quite ready when the young woman in Victorian dress leads the gaggling group through the cemetery gates. With nothing else to do the ghosts tag along behind as spectral spectators. 

 

“And this is the Oakview Cemetery. It’s been here since the town was founded, with graves dating back to the early 1800s.” 

 

She leads the motley crew to a tall, black stone with a hammer on the front. 

 

“Here is the grave of the same Thor Odinson of Odinson avenue. As I said earlier, even his gravestone has this hammer motif and though history has lost many of the legends of the original Thor, this Thor made quite an impact on this small town.”

 

As she’s speaking, a most curious thing happens. A swirl of blue energy rises over the grave and fills the Mjolnir motif. Foggy notices but before he can point it out the tour is moving on again. 

 

“Another famous resident of the town is said to be buried here, though his stone was stolen decades ago. Mr. Daniel Rand, famous snake oil salesman, made thousands selling miracle cures as ‘Iron Fist of the K’un-L’un’ until the day he made a fatal mistake…”

 

The tour snakes through the graveyard. They mention little boy ghosts in the local museum (Thomas and David look at each other in excitement until their father points out, that’s them) and even the old grove (impassable, but said to be the most haunted place in town). Between the chill in the air and the stories more than a few people are shivering. They pass the tree without comment, though Foggy hears more than a few whispered conversations. Finally, they reach the final stone.

 

“Finally, we reach the oldest grave in the cemetery. Though recently refurbished this grave has been here for nearly 200 years and it’s resident Matthew Murdock is said to be one of the graveyard’s busiest ghosts. In life, Matthew was the assistant and eventual replacement for Father Lantom, one of our town’s founders. Fever blinded Matthew at the age of nine and eventually took his life years later. 

 

“For decades his gravestone was broken and worn nameless, giving rise to his nickname: The Nameless Defender. Matthew has been seen numerous times over the course of his 200 years. During the fire of 1918 a figure was seen standing at the edge of the graveyard even as the town was evacuating. During the 60s as development threatened the graveyard, Matthew was seen many times. If you were to meet the man,  you’d find him friendly enough, with a bland smile and priestly collar. People say he was more than happy to talk, but anyone who asked his name saw his smile fade, not long before the rest of him followed. In a way, it’s because of Matthew that we’re all here today. This tour’s benefactors, the Nelson family. were the ones to research Matthew and in digging through old records found quite a few ghost stories.”

 

The tour leaves and the others leave with it. Only Foggy is left to stare at the still grave like he’s waiting for it to blink first. After an eternity of staring at nothing Foggy sighs and sits down. 

 

“Come on, Matt, don’t leave me here.”

 

For a moment Foggy thinks he sees something flicker.

 

“We need you Matt. Without you, the graveyard is undefended.”

 

Nothing. Foggy sighs and goes for broke. 

 

“I need you, Matt. The graveyard feels empty without you. I can’t imagine spending an eternity waiting but for you, I will. I have a whole plaque now. I’m not going anywhere.”

 

There’s no dramatic change. No lights burst forth from the earth and no angles herald his arrival. One moment the grave is empty and the next, Matt’s sitting on it looking dazed. 

 

“Foggy?”

 

Foggy nearly launches himself forward.

 

“Matt! I thought you were dead!”

 

Matt pauses.

 

“Well…”

 

Foggy punches him in the shoulder. 

 

“Ow! What was that for?”

 

“That was for your awful joke and for abandoning me.”

 

Matt rubs his arm and pouts. 

 

“Franklin Nelson, has no one ever told you it is wrong to hit defenseless people?”

 

Franklin snorts a laugh, trying to hold back tears. 

 

“Right because you’re like, so defenseless.”

 

Matt only shrugs and starts to stand. Foggy leaps to his feet and gallantly gives Matt his hand. 

 

“I’m blind, not useless,” grumbles Matt. 

 

“You’re also freshly back,” Foggy reminds him. “The others will want to see you.”

 

Matt nods thoughtfully. 

 

“Of course,” he says, “Only, there’s something I need to do first.”

 

“What?”

 

Foggy turns towards him curiously and that’s when Matt leans forward to catch him in a chaste kiss. After a few seconds Matt leans back. “I missed you,” murmurs Foggy. 

 

“I know,” murmurs Matt, and kisses him again lightly. “I’m sorry.”

 

They stand there for a moment, not so much kissing as embracing. 

 

“Finally!” says Jessica from behind them and Claire gives a whoop. Foggy tries to pull away, but Matt holds him closely. 

 

“Sorry, ladies,” says Matt, “He’s taken.” 

 

They stand for a moment before the boys arrive. 

 

“Did you hear Foggy?” enthuses Thomas, “They mentioned me! ‘The cemetery’s youngest resident!’”

 

“That’s great!” replies Foggy, kneeling. 

 

“They even mentioned Mom,” says David gravely. “Maybe she’ll come back!”

 

“I hope so, buddy,” says Foggy. “I hope so.”

 

The night stretches on for hours after the ghost tour, but Foggy barely feels it. For once in his afterlife everything is as it should be. Things would change soon. There would be new ghosts (or rather, old ones) to welcome and plenty of talking with Matt. For now though, he could rest in peace knowing that Matt would be there when he woke up. 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Oh man, what a rush. All the art featured here is by the lovely [ Cursingnochian on Tumblr](https://cursinginenochian.tumblr.com/) I'm on Tumblr as Readerofmuch, come find me there as well.


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